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May 25, 2007


There's an old man at your door. He is holding a pamphlet.

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Jeff R.: Say What You Like...

"So what is it that you United Nihilists believe in?"


"What, like the absence of God in a cold and unfeeling universe?"

"Not exactly."


"We don't believe in the universe."

"So you're solipsists, then?"

"No, no, we doubt our own existence too."

"But that's basic Descartes: Cogito, Ergo Sum and all that."

"We doubt both the fact of our thinking and the logical inference process itself."

"But you do believe in coming to people's doors and interrupting them during their dinners."

"Well, not so much believe as consider it a good way to get out of the house."

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David: Enduring

I lounged on the fainting couch, listening to the scratchy old recording. It was of my first show, my big break on Broadway. The overture swelled, and I recalled my nervousness at knowing my entire career hinged on that night.

I became a star. Plays led to movies, which led to television. I’d spent my life in the spotlight, always looking forward. I'd seen the world, and every person I met loved me.

I’d only had to make one small sacrifice.

The doorbell rang. Outside, an old man was clutching a pamphlet. No, it was a wrinkled, yellowed playbill.


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From The Comments: Fraley

“Honey, it’s another political candidate. He’s all yours.”

“Cool, I’ll be right there.”

He arose from the chair and then opened the door.

“Hello sir, I’m…”

“I know who you are, I know what you want. Don’t waste your time. I’m for the other guy.”


“Look, you’re wasting your time I support the other guy, ok? I’m a friend of his. Now, just go.”

The stranger shrugged his shoulders, left the pamphlet on the porch and walked away.

“Heh, I love doing that to them when…”

He looked down and saw the pamphlet read “Choose God.”

“I'll be damned!”

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Dave: Door to Door

"I'm sorry," the woman said, polite, dismissive.  "We're really not interested, thanks."  She closed the door.

God sighed.  The Witnesses had gone bankrupt, and the Mormons had turned all-electronic.  There was nobody left to handle the door-to-door part of the religion biz -- ironically, the most important part of the gig.  Cathedrals -- Megachurches, these days -- were all very nice, but nothing beat the personal, pressing-flesh, in media res of meeting in the doorway.

Screw it, God thought, His feet hurting.  That's what angels were for.  We'll see if Mrs. Mooney shuts the door on Remuel and his flaming sword, by cracky!

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Jim: Always Room For One More

Like most who came before, he just stood there, silent. Sparse hair like the last snows of winter wisped across his spotted pate while eyes that had once been piercing blue now stared at me in rheumy confusion.

I took the pamphlet from him and read the name. “Hello, Ryan,” I smiled. “Won’t you come inside?”

He continued to stare at me as if stricken dumb.

So I put my arm around his thin shoulders and led him in, feeling his youthful vigor return as he crossed the threshold. “I think we’ll be good friends, Ryan. My name is Peter.”

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Stacy: Saving Your Future

He gripped the paper tighter as he hurried down the sidewalk. Almost 4PM, only had about eight minutes left.

Where the fuck is that house…

He broke into a trot as his watch started beeping.

Hurry… hope I don’t have a fucking heart attack...

There it is…

He rushed to the front door, banged loudly with his fist. The startled housefrau snatched the door open, prepared for battle.

“See to your child!” he yelled.

She turned, dashed up the stairs, just as the wailing started. He placed the black paper on the entry table.

Future Fixers, Inc. saves another one.

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